Sunday, November 30, 2014

Frank Capra
dusted off an early classic, Lady for a
Day (1933), tricked out with all the glittery star power, Panavision,
Technicolor and stereophonic sound one could hope for inPocketful of Miracles (1961). Alas, it proved too weighty a
concoction for this light soufflé. Publicly, Capra professed to prefer the
remake to his original. What else could he do? He had purchased the rights to produce
it from Columbia president, Harry Cohn for a whopping $225,000, and deferred
his usual salary for a meager $200,000, roughly $150,000 less than what his
star, Glenn Ford was being paid to play Dave ‘the Dude’. In retrospect, Pocketful of Miraclesis a picture of
compromises; each concession contributing to the overall sense of ennui permeating
its warhorse of a plot and occasionally anchoring it to the point of tiresome predictability.
The best performance within, arguably, belongs to Peter Falk given the plum
part of Dave’s right-hand stooge; the long suffering, and smack-talking Joy Boy.
Falk’s one liners are all zingers and he effortlessly delivers them with his
usual panache for playing the loveably befuddled thug.

Capra, who had
initially aspired to an entirely different tale, one more timely and set in the
present – all about Korean War orphans and an apple farm in Oregon - eventually
reverted back to the original’s Damon Runyon roots; a clever gangster-land
milieu of enchanting obtuse and laughably lowbrow reprobates, bumbling and
bungling their attempts to make one of their own – the street peddler, Apple
Annie (Bette Davis) – queen for a day. While the original had been set within
in the context of then contemporary ‘society’
– or lack thereof, if one so chose to regard it – the remake became a ‘period piece’ by default and seemingly
out of step with the ‘then’ current strain of film-making: also, more
importantly, with audiences’ shifting tastes. Perhaps, Capra was inspired by
Billy Wilder’s monumental success with Some
Like It Hot (1959); ironically, another flapper-clad comedy that managed to
ring registers across the country.

But Pocketful of Miracles has the unhappy
circumstance of being slightly miscast; Capra populating even his backdrop with
easily identifiable faces, virtually all having seen better days (and better
parts, for that matter) in their earlier careers: Thomas Mitchell as ‘Judge’
Henry G. Blake; Edward Everett Horton, as mildly adorable butler, Hudgens;
David Brian, New York’s governor; Jerome Cowan, the city’s mayor, and, Arthur O’Connell,
brutally miscast as Spanish Count Alfonso Romero. (Where the hell is Cesar
Romero when you need him?!?) Capra was also somewhat forced into accepting Hope
Lange as Dave’s nightclub gal pal, Queenie Martin. Lange, who had shown great
promise in 1957’s Peyton Place –
though precious little elsewhere – also happened to be Glenn Ford’s girlfriend
du jour.

With deadlines
drawing near, Glenn Ford was foisted upon Capra, who would have preferred Frank
Sinatra, Kirk Douglas, or even Jackie Gleason as his star. Capra had already
forged a promising relationship with Sinatra, with whom he had recently made A Hole in the Head (1959). Sinatra was,
in fact, hired for Pocketful of Miraclesbefore the self-appointed ‘chairman of
the board’ bowed out, citing his disapproval of the screenplay. About this:
Capra had been unable to convince Abe Burrows or Garson Kanin to update the
original’s plot. Frustrated by his reoccurring stalemates, Capra began work on
the revamp himself, though sincerely struggling to find cohesion. At this juncture, Harry Cohn lowered the boom –
twice; first, insisting Capra take on a collaborator, then, by refusing to
finance the picture outright after the working screenplay by Harry Tugend equally
failed to fire up his interests.

Now it was
Capra who switched horses in mid-stride, buying up the property outright and
pitching it to United Artists. There was some interest there, though not enough
to completely finance the picture; hence Glenn Ford’s lucrative proposal to
produce the film under his own company; thus, rescuing Pocketful of Miracles from turnaround purgatory. Tragically, Ford
had definite ideas about how to proceed, as did Bette Davis; the pair’s
frequent bickering leaving Capra with chronic headaches and a strong desire
simply to get the damn thing done. By comparison, Lady for A Day had featured mostly second tier contract players Capra
could command at will; May Robson as ‘Apple Annie’ giving a tenderly
warm-hearted performance that had helped to anchor Robert Riskin’s screenplay
in a sort of middle-aged sentimentality. ‘Miracles’ unfortunately became a
vehicle for Bette Davis by default; Capra first considering Shirley Booth,
Helen Hayes, Katharine Hepburn, and Jean Arthur. Pocketful of Miracles really ought to have been Booth’s picture;
Paramount producer, Hal B. Wallis vying to remake it. Evidently, Harry Cohn
felt the project would be better served by Capra; a move that caused Wallis to
refuse his loan out of Booth – contractually committed to Paramount. But the
other aforementioned actresses all turned Capra down flat, leaving the door
open for Bette Davis, desperately in need of money during this fallow period in
her career.

Alas, Davis is
too grand a star for the empathetic Apple Annie; her gestures reeking of scene
stealing in a way that almost completely belies her supposedly modest and
downtrodden heroine. When first her Cinderella-esque transformation occurs -
made complete by an army of beauticians and couturier specialists – Davis,
approaching Dave the Dude - and looking resplendent, arms outstretched - to
recreate the moment of gratitude from the original, alas, cannot help but pale to
Robson’s more matronly frump. Part of
what made Lady for a Day click so
well was May Robson’s unassuming presence; her ability to effortlessly morph
from drunken hag to stately matron, seemingly from nothing greater than a puff
of magic smoke and mirrors. By contrast, Bette Davis sheds her awkwardly dowdy
garb to assume the mantle of quality we already know she is capable of
achieving. There’s no surprise to this transformation. It’s expected and rather
a relief to see Davis finally looking like the star she is, rather than the beleaguered
and gin-soaked harridan she has pretended to be.

Budgeted at
$2.9 million, Pocketful of Miracles
was rescued from the capital infused into its production by Glenn Ford’s
company. Capra trudged on, enduring Davis’ frequent meddling along the way. But
she and co-star Glenn Ford also did not get on. Capra was just as soured on
Hope Lange, whom Ford had insisted be given the dressing room next to his – a top
spot usually reserved for the ‘A’ list talent. Davis was perfectly willing to
acquiesce to this request, adding “dressing
rooms are never responsible for the success of a film”. But Capra had had
enough of compromises and ensconced Davis in the dressing room adjacent Ford’s,
causing a pettiness to stir between Ford and Davis. From that moment on, Ford
treated Davis with a sort of menial contempt, even insisting in an interview
that Davis’ casting had been his idea,
artistic remuneration for his being cast in her 1946 smash hit, A Stolen Life, and meant to help Davis
revive her ‘sagging career.’ Davis,
who could overlook just about anything when she wanted to, never forgave or
forgot this insult.

Owing one of
its stars her due, Pocketful of Miracles
opens with Bette Davis’ prophesizing street peddler, Apple Annie selling her
wares to the hoi poloi on Broadway. When she deliberately plants a crisp apple
into the open hand of a passerby, only to be given a plum nickel for her
efforts, she proudly cocks her head to one side, shouting after him, “Thank you, Mr. Rockefeller!” Unlike May
Robson’s benevolent beggar, Davis’ reincarnation is more belligerent than
grateful, and devious than sly; contributing to a Salvation Army Santa’s kettle,
but snapping at him to “Shut up!”
when he benevolently acknowledges her contribution. From this inauspicious
debut, Frank Capra has a little trouble getting into the meat of his story,
segueing to the narration voiceover from Joy Boy, soon to be jettisoned as we
enter an abandoned nightclub, its safe being cracked with some disastrous
explosives as Dave the Dude and Joy Boy look on. The Dude has just paid for the
burial of a well-known underworld racketeer who, curiously, died penniless and
owing Dave $20,000.

Just how he is
to collect what is owed him now remains a temporary mystery; that is, until the
sudden and unexpected appearance of the deceased’s daughter, Queenie Martin,
who promises to make good on her father’s losses. She even makes a modest down payment
to prove her intentions. Dave is no fool. He can recognize this kid has
definite assets worth exploiting. So, Dave decides to open a flashy bootlegger’s
nightclub, making Queenie its proprietress and top-flight musical attraction. Two
years pass and Queenie proves herself a success. Too bad with the end of
prohibition Dave’s fortunes are set to dry up. Queenie becomes Dave’s
long-suffering gal pal; he, seemingly stalling her repeated attempts to land
him at a wedding chapel. Dave, alas, has bigger fish to fry; the biggest, in
fact – his latest scheme to join Chicago kingpin, Steve Darcey’s (Sheldon
Leonard) bigtime mafia. Darcey is on the
lam and Dave firmly believes he can control and roll this one-time fat cat for
some quick cash; also, to get the gangster to play ball on his terms.

Dave never
makes a move without consulting Annie for a ‘lucky apple’ first – a superstition
that, so far, has worked wonders on his enterprising lifestyle. In the meantime,
Annie has been sending her estranged daughter, Louise (Ann-Margaret) letters
from a swank hotel with stationary pinched from its front register by the
doorman, Herbie (Tom Fadden). It seems Annie sent Louise – an illegitimately
born child – away to a convent in Spain to be raised by the nuns; having used
practically every penny she’s earned in the interim to pay for Louise’s
comfortable lifestyle abroad. Louise thinks her mother is the wealthy socialite,
Mrs. E. Worthington Manville, who operates in New York’s circles of high
society. It’s been a convincing ruse thus far, until Louise elects to return to
America with her handsome fiancé, Carlos (Peter Mann) and his father, the
wealthy Count Alfonso Romero (Arthur O’Connell – who couldn’t be a swarthy Latin
Lothario on his best day). Naturally, the trio expects to find Mrs. Manville
living in the lap of luxury.

Queenie
encourages Dave to help Annie out. How? Why, by helping to perpetuate her lie for
the brief forty-eight hours Louise, her husband to be and father-in-law are in
town. Under Queenie’s guidance Annie is
transformed from drunken derelict into dashing dowager. Dave arranges for the
cultured pool shark, Henry Blake to pose as Annie’s husband, installing Annie
in his out-of-town friend’s hotel suite, complete with Hudgins, the butler, in
tow. In the meantime, Darcey grows increasingly frustrated by Dave’s inability
to commit to a meeting that will solidify their ‘business’ partnership. Dave
wants more than Darcey is willing to give. But Dave has Darcey over a barrel.
In fact, the Police Commissioner (Barton Maclane) has already made it clear
that, as public enemy #1, if Darcey shows his face in New York he will be sent
immediately to jail. To this end, the commissioner puts Police Inspector
McCrary (John Litel) on the case; quietly tailing Dave’s every move and making
it virtually impossible for him to contact Darcey.

Dave and
Queenie have a knockdown/drag out brawl in his hotel suite; she demanding he
forgo the arrangement with Darcey to start a ‘quiet life’ with her on a little
farm in Connecticut she has already bought with her hard earned monies. Dave is
marginally receptive to the idea. But now he’s embroiled in a panicked attempt
to make over Annie and give the Count and Carlos a lavish reception. Gathering
together a clan of his best mugs and their low class/low brow dames, Dave
endeavors to have Blake teach them all how to behave like ladies and gentleman.
He uses Queenie’s shuddered nightclub as ground zero for their makeovers and
tutelage, drawing McCrary’s interest and surveillance. McCrary is certain ‘the Dude’ is up to no good
and decides to arrest the whole lot before they can hurry off to the hotel
where Annie’s party is to take place. At the hotel, the Count and Carlos begin
to grow suspicious. Where are the guests? And Annie too has become very
nervous, pushed to the brink of making a bittersweet confession to everyone
mere moments before Dave arrives with an entourage of New York’s ‘legitimate’
finest citizenry, including the police inspector, the mayor and the governor;
all of whom carry on the ruse to Annie’s shock and amazement.

Providing the
Count, Carlos and Louise with a police escort to the docks, Annie sees everyone
off to Spain. The trio departs, Louise and Annie exchanging tear-stained,
heartfelt goodbyes; presumably never again to meet; Annie, knowing she has
secured the future happiness of her daughter. The ending to Pocketful of Miracles, like Lady
for a Day, doesn’t make much sense. After all, won’t Annie be invited to
her own daughter’s wedding? And if so, how will she be able to attend? Fair
enough, both movies set up the fact Annie’s alcoholism has ruined her kidneys,
thus, her stake on life is tenuous at best. But what if she does live a few
more years? Are we to fathom her own daughter, having been given such a lavish
send off, will never desire to see her mother ever again? And what of the
anticipated dowry, or – after Annie’s death – inheritance – that can never come
to Louise? Perhaps, a Hitchcockian metaphor will suffice here: “It’s only a movie!” Yes, even Damon
Runyon’s original story is a fairytale. Pocketful
of Miracles is not to be taken seriously, but rather, merely at face value.

This, alas, is
difficult to do. Whereas Lady for a Day
retained the effervescent charm of Runyon’s original tale (also, a good portion
of the author’s flair for backwardly phrased pig-English), Pocketful of Miracles attempts to streamline both the lure and the
dialogue to pedestrian effect. Glenn Ford’s performance is manic at best; his
Dave generally frantic, impatient and unable to deliver the rapid fire
interchanges with Queenie without making them appear as scripted negotiations.
And Bette Davis’ Annie is too caustic, too grating on the nerves in her beggary
incarnation; too gentile and emotionally torn as the dowager of New York
society. May Robson’s Annie relished this transformation, affording her some
precious time with her daughter in which a maternal bond could evolve. Davis’
treatment is more panged, less genuine somehow, struggling to make inroads into
this relationship with her own flesh and blood. She’s an observer at best;
seemingly afraid to approach from the sidelines, even as she quietly observes
the romance blossoming between Louise and Carlos on the hotel terrace.

Somewhere
along the way, director Frank Capra has rather insincerely mislaid the crux of
the story – its heartwarming centerpiece unceremoniously discarded, or rather,
replaced by frenetic dumb show comedy meant to buoy the piece to its inevitable
conclusion. Part of the problem with Pocketful
of Miracles is that it has been conceived long after the gifted technicians
responsible for making expert ‘screwball
comedies’ have departed the sound stages. Pocketful of Miracles is an obvious throwback to the heady, hearty
and thoroughly unhinged comedy milieu of the 1930’s, but without the thirties verve
for slick and stylish wit. In its place, Capra gives us some sharp-shooting
repartee between the principles, but it never amounts to anything more, or
better, than simply that; the actors involved in its delivery unfamiliar with
the particulars of how to make the material click as it should. And then there
is the cloying James Van Heusen/Sammy Cahn title song, briefly heard under the
main titles and interpolated elsewhere; sung by a children’s choir and
thoroughly grating on the nerves. In the end, Pocketful of Miracles is a wan ghost flower of its predecessor;
cleverly dressed in elegant trappings, but miserably missing its mark on just
about every occasion.

Kino Lorber’s Blu-ray
is, thankfully, not the disaster so many of their MGM/Fox acquisitions of more
recent times have been. Right off the bat we get the revived Leo the Lion
platinum gold trademark – usually the forbearer of better things. Sure enough, Pocketful of Miracles has been given
consideration and some restoration efforts to ready it for this 1080p release.
The visuals are fairly smooth with a modicum of film grain naturally
represented. Overall, color fidelity is impressive; particularly the scenes
taking place in Queenie’s nightclub, flooded with garishly rich and
ultra-saturated tones. Flesh too looks very natural. Contrast is, at least in
spots, a tad weaker than anticipated; blacks registering more tonal deep gray
than black. And color too waffles from vibrant to slightly faded, perhaps even
hinting at the first signs of vinegar syndrome during the movie’s last third.
Transitions are mostly smooth except, again – and curiously – during these last
reels when they tend to suffer from a momentary lapse in both refinement and
clarity. Overall, the visual presentation will not disappoint. There is, in
fact, quite a lot to recommend it. But Kino has encoded this disc with a
disappointingly weak bit rate and this appears to have impacted both the
overall softening of the image and coarsening of its grain structure. On
smaller monitors, Pocketful of Miracles
will likely impress. In projection it doesn’t quite live up to expectations
and, in spots, falls apart. Minor compression noise is glaringly obvious. Kino lossless DTS mono is competent, but unremarkable.
There are no extras, save a badly worn theatrical trailer.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

American
patriotism on film has been defined in many ways, though arguably none more
rewarding than every man, James Stewart’s fervent belief in the present and
wistful promise of the future in Frank Capra’s monumentally stirring Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). In
a Depression-ridden America, people had rediscovered their faith in the
Presidency of Franklin Roosevelt and his fireside chats, Capra aiming a
decidedly malicious little arrow into the legitimacy of its Congress by pitting
filmdom’s most winsome male ingénue against the morally corrupt political
machinery of a dyed in the wool fraud, masterfully calculated by the superb
Claude Rains. Mr. Smith Goes To
Washington is an unsurpassed gem in Capra’s crown; a movie, not unlike
Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard
(1950) in its biting social commentary, that Columbia studio boss, Harry Cohn
was ‘encouraged’ not to make; Cohn
hedging his bets on his star director and pushing the project through despite
his own modest misgivings. Capra’s clout at Columbia cannot be underestimated.
Within a few short years, he had risen through the ranks as few in his
profession; gone from floundering would-be artist to expert technician in the
cinema arts; surrounding himself with a superior roster of Columbia’s A-list
talent that included screenwriter, Sidney Buchman, with an amiable – if uncredited
– assist from Myles Connolly.

To bask in the
afterglow of Jefferson Smith’s wholesome naiveté is to admire both Capra’s
verve and his complicity for telling compassionate stories about the America he
had embraced with all the impassioned charm and flavor of the immigrant
experience. Like song writer, Irving Berlin, Capra’s view of America is one of
boundless excitement, joy and unquantifiable dollops of national pride. There
is both humility and a dignity to this exercise. Indeed, it remains a genuine
shame Berlin and Capra never collaborated together. What art these two ardent
romancers of ‘America the beautiful’
might have wrought. Nevertheless, their work apart attests to a level of
optimism for their adopted homeland; certainly, in Mr. Smith’s case, to an unparalleled conviction in the country’s
political machinery, to weed out its bad apples and endure as the last bastion for
all the free peoples of the world. Not that Washington perceived the project as
such. In fact, Columbia president, Harry Cohn was to experience some undue pressure;Mr. Smith misperceived as a
condemnation of the democratic system at its worst, or rather, an insincere
slight on government’s ability to procure the necessary and proper set of
values without the intervention of a novice unceremoniously cast in their
midst.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington is undeniably
anchored by James Stewart’s galvanic performance as the newcomer – Jefferson
Smith; just a small town hick, unaccustomed to the fast-talking and even faster
moving backroom machinations that make Washington click – or rather, operate
spuriously right in the open. The other truly great performance in the film
belongs to Jean Arthur, cast as the gutsy, but jaded object of Jefferson’s
Smith’s affections - Clarissa Saunders.
Arthur’s career dates all the way back to the silent era. But it wasn’t
until her appearance in Capra’s other memorable ‘everyman’ comedy – Mr. Deeds
Goes To Town (1936) that she truly came into her own as a bona fide star:
the sharp, shoot-from the hip gal
with a Teflon-coat protecting her very fragile heart. Cohn had purchased a
short ‘unpublished’ story by author, Lewis
R. Foster, variously titled, The
Gentleman from Montana and then, The
Gentleman from Wyoming. Initially, the plan had been to star Columbia
contract player, Ralph Bellamy. Ultimately, Cohn was to minimize any
misperceived aspersions cast upon either state by avoiding mention from whence
our hero hails. Indeed, Cohn was to instruct Capra and his screenwriters to be
vague on a good many points more definitely outlined in Foster’s story. For
instance, bumbling governor, Hubert ‘Happy’ Hopper (Guy Kibbe) is never given a
state; his politico hack/womanizer with few redeemable qualities left open to
interpretation; a sort of global representative or textbook example of how ‘not
to’ become involved in the political arena.

Cohn was also
forced to concoct a fictional national boy’s club – the Boy Rangers – after the
Boy Scouts of America refused to allow any representation of their organization
in the film. Indeed, in January 1938, Hollywood’s governing board of censorship
had attempted to put the kibosh on any film based on Foster’s short story;
discouraging both Paramount and MGM from pursuing the project. The Hays’
Office, then presided over by Joseph Breen, specifically objected to the “generally unflattering portrayal” of
America’s system of government. It sounds mildly absurd today, but the climate
of another looming war in Europe might have inspired Breen in his zealous
dissuasions; fearing any misrepresentation of America’s politicos as anything
less than a sect of diligent, hard-working and upstanding citizens, tirelessly
laboring in the best interest of the nation, would offer unnecessary fuel to
the Axis Powers’ already dwindling respect for American might and morality. In
refusing to kowtow under pressure, Harry Cohn would quickly discover he would
have to fight for his proposed picture from then on; to have it made – and,
more importantly, have it seen by the general public.

Yet, objections would not come from Joseph Breen after a copy of the
screenplay had been submitted for his consideration. In fact, Breen thought the scrip “a grand yarn” destined to do “a great deal of good for all those who see
it”. Breen’s accolades for a picture yet to be made were the last bit of
gushing and cooing Mr. Smith Goes to
Washingtonwould receive. Moreover, Cohn found himself being pressed by the
omnipotent power structure in Washington. It is rumored the FBI started a file
on Cohn; a quietly benign threat to keep Cohn and Columbia under a microscope
for presumed ‘subversive activities.’
At some point, the original ending to Mr. Smith Goes to Washington was
distilled – or rather, rewritten. There remains some discrepancy as to whether
the changes were enforced by Harry Cohn – presumably, to cut costs – or
external forces; but the changes seem to have foreshortened the evolution of
the burgeoning romance between Jefferson Smith and Clarissa Saunders.
Production photos, as well as the original theatrical trailer, depict scenes of
both characters returning in marital triumph to Smith’s hometown; also, Smith
forgiving Senator Paine (Claude Rains) his deceptions. Arguably, such
forgiveness might have inadvertently alluded to redemption for Paine – undeserved
and unjustifiable in the golden age of Hollywood-ized morality.

Mr. Smith Goes
To Washington might also have become a darker political drama in
director, Rouben Mamoulian’s hands. But Capra had expressed interest in the
project. With the meteoric success of Capra’s It Happened One Night (1934) and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936) in his back pocket, Cohn could not
deny his star director Mr. Smith Goes to
Washington. Capra initially saw the film as a sequel to Mr. Deeds, intending Gary Cooper to
reprise his Longfellow Deeds role a second time. Alas, Coop’s commitments
elsewhere precluded his involvement herein; Capra immediately turning to James
Stewart as his alternative.“He looked
like a country kid,” Capra would later recall of Stewart, “The idealist…it was very close to him.”
In the days when stars were indentured
to slavish studio contracts, Stewart belonged to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. And so,
the groveling between Harry Cohn and MGM’s raja, Louis B. Mayer began.
Interestingly, the genuflecting was kept to a bare minimum; Mayer seemingly in
a philanthropic mood, or perhaps conscious of the fact his writers had not yet
figured out Stewart’s on screen personal. Following Stewart’s monumental
success inMr. Smith, Mayer would
recall him to his own stable of stars and diligently work to build the lanky
Pennsylvanian a homegrown career.

Frank Capra
was granted limited access to a few choice locations in Washington D.C.,
including Union Station, the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol Building. But
these appeared mostly as background plates in the film; leaving Capra’s art
director, Lionel Banks to indulge in meticulous – and very costly – recreations
of the Senate committee and cloak rooms, hotel suites as well as specific
monuments. The sets rivaled anything in reality. Even the Press Club was
reproduced down to the minutest detail; the recreated Senate Chamber, presided
over by technical advisor, James D. Preston, a former superintendent of the
Senate’s gallery. Preston would also be instrumental in advising on political
protocol. To minimize costs, virtually
all of the exteriors of the city were shot on Warner Brothers’ freestanding
‘New York Street’ back lot, redressed and populated by a thousand extras to add
flourish and movement.

Presumably, to
hedge his bets and broker favor from the politicos who had already denounced
the film before having seen it, Harry Cohn planned to debut Mr. Smith Goes to Washington in the
cradle of liberty: D.C.’s Constitution Hall. Alas, his appeasement backfired.
The National Press Club had already sharpened their poisoned pens, citing Mr. Smith as “silly and stupid”. Democrat majority leader, Alben W. Barkley went
so far as to suggest it made the whole of Washington look like “a bunch of crooks” and further promoted
an unflattering opinion that Capra had made a movie “as grotesque as anything ever seen!” America’s Ambassador to Great
Britain, Joseph P. Kennedy, also jumped on the bandwagon suggesting Mr. Smith’s release in Europe would wreck
“America’s prestige.” Evidently, the
press was more than willing to bolster this outrage, and insinuations both
Capra and Cohn were anti-American and pro-Communist flourished. Journalist, Pete
Harrison even proposed the Senate pass a bill banning any movie made “not in the best interest of our country”.
In hindsight, Washington did one better – or worse (depending on one’s point of
view), quietly qualifying the Neely Anti-Block Booking Bill. Eventually known
as the Government Consent Decrees, this led to the breakup of studio-owned theater
chains in the late 1940s; in effect, splintering Hollywood’s autonomy until the
mid-1980’s.

Cohn had a lot
of money riding on Mr. Smith Goes to
Washington. To pull the movie from distribution, not only would have
admitted that, perhaps, some of the vitriol being heaped upon the picture was
warranted, but also been tantamount to cutting his own throat, financially
speaking. Instead, Cohn pitched a counter offensive; a PR junket bent on
plumping up the film’s patriotic message in support of democracy; a push that
achieved minor success and was publicized in various positive reviews. In
Europe, Mr. Smithwas immediately
banned in Germany, Italy, Spain and Russia; Capra even learning of areas where
the foreign dub had been made to conform to alternative political ideologies.
Labeled the quintessential ‘whistle blower’,
Mr. Smith’s reputation suffered at
the box office. Capra, who had invested every last ounce of blood, sweat and
tears in order to will his pet project to life, was demoralized by the critical
backlash. In retrospect, Mr. Smith’s
disquieting implosion left Capra to pursue a decade’s worth of infinitely
darker movies, beginning with Meet John
Doe (1941) and culminating with It’s
a Wonderful Life (1946).

Despite
Capra’s initial disappointment, Mr.
Smith Goes to Washington has long since endured as one of his top-tiered
entertainments. Fair enough, the only virtuous person in the picture is
undeniably Stewart’s Jefferson Smith; untouched and unspoiled by the corruption
and graft that surrounds him; his goodness eventually rubbing off on Clarissa,
who becomes his most ardent supporter. Ostensibly, Mr. Smith Goes to Washingtoncan
be viewed as anti-American, although this was never Capra’s intent; the
elder statesmen of its political machinery contented to remain silent while
manipulative politico puppet master, James Taylor (Edward Arnold), cajoles,
bribes, brutalizes or otherwise intimidates innocent people and stifles the jurisprudence
of a nation into doing his own private bidding. But the ‘anti-American’ allegations only stick if one sets aside the film’s
finale; Jefferson conducting a patriotic flag-waving filibuster until he
collapses on the floor of the Senate, drawing out Paine’s empathy into a raw
confession. It’s a delicious and perhaps even Christ-like notion – one optimist
changing the course of a corrupt system from the inside.

Claude Rains
devious complicit is the obvious villain in Capra’s piece; Taylor’s mouthpiece
and go between. But Guy Kibbee’s ridiculous governor is, arguably, the more
fascinating stooge. On the surface he is played strictly as the fop – a
hallmark of Kibbee’s career; cast as reoccurring loveably obtuse and slightly
inebriated cads. Yet, a closer look at his character reveals a decidedly more
sinister purpose; the way he callously chooses a coin toss to make up his mind
as to which candidate he should back; the coin landing on its edge but next to
a newspaper detailing Smith’s accomplishments. And the governor’s decision is
sealed by his own inability to conceive of a man’s virtue equating to anything
more – or better – than rank naiveté; just a simpleton who can be easily swayed
by a thin smile, a warm handshake and a kind – however facetiously conceived -
word.

Immediately
following Dimitri Tiomkin’s rousting main title underscore, we are introduced
to the quandary as to who will fill the seat of newly deceased U.S. senator,
Sam Foley. Eventually, the backroom connivers back junior senator, Jefferson
Smith, believing he will be fairly easy to manage and manipulate to do their
bidding once ensconced in Washington’s well-oiled – and oily - machinery. To
ensure close watch is kept on Smith, James Taylor entrusts his quiet
supervision to the publicly esteemed elder statesman, Sen. Joseph Paine (Claude
Rains); a friend of Jefferson’s late father. Paine is actually Taylor’s
mouthpiece and corrupted to his core. Smith is introduced to Paine’s daughter,
Susan (Astrid Allwyn) with whom he immediately becomes quite sheepishly
smitten. But Smith’s cockeyed optimism
proves a hindrance when the Washington press club decides to follow his every
move, concocting bylines and promoting him as the all-American country bumpkin.

Smith is
demoralized, feeling as though he has made a grave mistake in accepting the
nomination. Recognizing how ill equipped he has been, Smith leans heavily on
his secretary, Clarissa Saunders (Jean Arthur) and, to a lesser extent, her
pal, Diz Moore (Thomas Mitchell) for advice. Saunders was an aid to Sam Foley, kicking
around Washington for a long time. She’s hard and practically heartless,
knowing too well how callous and cruel this town can be. When Jefferson asks to
be taken to the various Washington monuments, including the Lincoln Memorial,
Saunders laughs off the request as misguided and touristy. But Smith is the
real deal; believing heart and soul in the high ideals of the country’s
founding fathers. Sensing Jefferson’s waning interest in remaining in
Washington, but also convinced Taylor has found the ideal stooge to manipulate,
Paine quietly hints Smith propose a bill to help bolster and stem the tide of
his ridiculed press coverage.

The idea has
merit, Smith immediately latching onto a bill that will authorize a federal
loan to appropriate a patch of wildernessfor a national boys’ camp in his home state. The idea
is the land will be paid back through donations from youngsters all across
America. In a Depression strapped America, donations nevertheless begin to pour
in from all corners of the country. Alas, the proposed campsite is already part
of a dam-building graft scheme included in an appropriations bill, its chief
architect, James Taylor and its most ardent supporter, Senator Paine. Unwilling
to stain the reputation of an honorable man - at first - Paine informs Taylor
of his decision to step down from the fray, whereupon Taylor insidiously
reminds Paine his entire political career is built upon a lie; one Taylor has
no quam to crush in an instant should Paine refuse his demands. Under pressure to
save his own political face Paine takes to the senate floor, accusing Smith of
already owning the land in question, producing fraudulent evidence to support
his claim. Unable to quantify Paine’s betrayal, or defend himself from it,
Smith skulks off with his own reputation in tatters.

Saunders, who
thought less of Smith for his wholesomeness, has begun to quietly fall in love
with him. Having seen the goodness as more than mere façade, Saunders seeks
Smith out, imploring him to take a stand and vindicate his reputation with a
good ole fashioned filibuster. If nothing else, it will postpone the
appropriations bill and prevent his expulsion from the senate. Smith is moved
by Saunders’ sudden faith in him and accepts this challenge, launching into a
non-stop diatribe, begun passionately and, in fact, supported in his own home
state. Determined he should not succeed, Taylor sends out his hired guns to
intimidate and injure the Boy Rangers, who are spreading the word of Smith’s
innocence. Director Capra’s optimistic view of this grassroots dissemination of
the truth is a tad too idealistic; a handful of ardent young men canvassing
their towns and cities with mimeographed pamphlets, even as Taylor’s army of
back-pocket newspaper drones spread their vitriol against Smith in the
mainstream press.

Taylor’s
minions decimate Smith’s supporters, distorting the facts to suit their own
impressions of ‘the truth’. Entering his twenty-fourth uninterrupted hour on
the senate floor, a beleaguered and utterly exhausted Jefferson Smith is faced
with a bin of letters and telegrams supposedly from his own state, though
actually forged by Taylor, asking for his expulsion. Believing his own
countrymen have lost all faith in his resolve, Smith is momentarily comforted
by the kindly visage of the President of the Senate (Harry Carey), before
collapsing on the floor as Saunders frantically looks on from the gallery. Overwrought
with guilt, Senator Paine attempts suicide, is stopped by his cohorts, then
bursts onto the floor to confess his complicity in the cover up and expose
Taylor’s corruptions and his own. Exonerated, Smith is cheered to the rafters,
with Saunders rushing to his side.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington remains the
quintessence of that oft’ labeled ‘Capra-corn’
film formula Frank Capra perfected over at Columbia Pictures throughout the
1930’s. In everyman, James Stewart, Capra has the absolute perfect embodiment
of the bright-eyed, big-hearted American to whom even the very concept of moral
turpitude is foreign; much less its varying improbity transferred from theory
into practice. James Stewart’s genial everyman unfurls a flurry of patriotic
flag waving; the spectacle spared its schmaltz, not only from Stewart’s
carefully nuanced performance, but also by Capra’s masterful direction.
Interestingly, Capra took a break from his usual good luck charm, screenwriter,
Robert Riskin; Sidney Buchman delivering the goods with great sincerity and
gusto herein. His set pieces; Jefferson’s awe-inspiring first look at the
Lincoln Memorial, and the rousing filibuster are not only memorable bits of
sentimental showmanship, but have since gone on to become iconic
representations, defining - for most what it means to truly be an American.

Regardless of
the critical muckraking that occurred upon the film’s premiere, Mr. Smith is Capra’s class ‘A’ affair,
with only slight tinges of the political exposé to recommend it. Perhaps too
many toiling and roiling in Washington then found more than a kernel of truth
in its representations of backroom politics. The film also comes at the tail
end of Capra's reign at Columbia Studios. With the advent of WWII, Capra's
particular brand of Americana grew at odds with the more grim approaching storm
clouds from the European conflict, particularly after America's involvement in
the crisis. By 1940, light and frothy Capra-corn
was out. Film noir was in; though no one had labeled the latter movement as
such just yet.

Sony Home
Entertainment debuts Mr. Smith Goes to
Washington as, presumably, their entrée to the ‘Capra Collection’ in a
handsome embossed digi-pack with impressive liner notes. Problem: Sony has
already farmed out Capra’s masterpiece, It
Happened One Night (1934) to Criterion. So, just what other Capra gems are
destined for this ‘collection’
remains open for discussion. One would sincerely hope for newly remastered and
sparkling restorations of Mr. Deeds Goes
To Town (1936) and Lost Horizon
(1937) among them. But I digress. Mr.
Smith Goes to Washington has been given a superb restoration under the
aegis of Grover Crisp, who continues to lead the charge – and the way – in
hi-def presentations of vintage catalog on Blu-ray. Bravo, Mr. Crisp, and thank
you! Mr. Smith looks divine in
1080p, the benefactor of a ‘from the ground up’ digital restoration in 4K to
mark its 75th anniversary. Prepare to be dazzled. Virtually all of
the age-related damage that once plagued the old DVD’s is gone. The gray scale
exhibits exceptional tonality and, apart from a handful of ‘soft’ inserts, most likely derived from
less than stellar existing source materials, this transfer is a winner through
and through. Contrast is richly satisfying; deep saturated blacks and near
pristine whites. Film grain has been naturally replicated. Close-ups astound in
their razor-sharp clarity and attention to minute details in skin, hair and
fabric; the ‘wow’ factor in evidence throughout. The DTS-HD mono audio is
capable; a real showcase for Dimitri Tiomkin’s underscore; dialogue and effects
sounding solid and, occasionally, surprisingly nuanced.

You’ll be disappointed
by the extras. I know, I was. We get direct port overs of Frank Capra Jr.’s all
too brief Frank Capra Jr. Remembers Mr. Smith Goes to Washington; Conversations
with Frank Capra Jr. - The Golden Years, and, Frank Capra Collaboration
– by far, the best of the lot. Also present: Conversations with Frank Capra
Jr. - A Family Historyand The Frank Capra I Knew, hosted by
historian Jeanine Basinger. Kenneth Bowser’s 1997, Frank Capra’s American Dream
is also here. But if you already own It
Happened One Night from Criterion, then you already have this
feature-length documentary hosted by Ron Howard. This leaves the 28 page digi-pack as the only
genuine ‘new’ extra included in this
set; well worth the price of admission and featuring an essay by Jeremy Arnold.
Bottom line: an immortal film, expertly represented in hi-def. Highly
recommended! Very highly, in fact.

Monday, November 17, 2014

One of the
most remarkable literary adaptations ever to emerge from MGM, Albert Lewin’s The Picture of Dorian Gray (1945)
remains a startling tale of the supernatural, of course, based on the
masterwork by Oscar Wilde. The film flies in the face of the studio’s motto ‘ars gratia artis’ – loosely translated
as ‘art for art’s sake’ - its harsh
critique of aestheticism based on Wilde’s own celebrated dabbling with its
precepts. Aestheticism today is superficially translated as living one’s life
solely for pleasure. But actually, in Wilde’s time there was an entire mantra
that went with this scant definition; a wanton meandering through life as a
reflection of nothing better than to mildly amuse. According these precepts,
art should be beautiful and one should strive to emulate its beauty in the real
world. There is no place for morality or even a social conscience in
aestheticism. Achieving venal gratification is all that matters; a very
Machiavellian approach to human existence and one which Wilde had begun to
question and, in fact, was quite critical of at the time he wrote his one and
only novel.

Oscar Wilde’s
Dorian Gray is hardly the creature exposed to us in Lewin’s film; the stoic,
glacially serene brunette male beauty as masterfully portrayed by Hurd
Hatfield. Nor is Angela Lansbury’s Sybil Vane anywhere near the novel’s
depiction of a worldly Shakespearean actress who manages to seduce Dorian, but
then commits the carnal sin of aestheticism by forsaking her art for her lover,
thereby rendering her importance in Dorian’s life utterly moot and disposable.
No, Wilde’s incarnation of the ‘perfect’
male specimen and the girl whose love he tortures into premature death are far
removed from Wilde’s original intent. And yet, the film functions as a superior
re-telling of Wilde’s prose. In the
novel, Dorian Gray is a buff, blonde Adonis who exudes, rather than concealing,
his emotions. In casting against type for the film, Lewin achieves a rather
spectacularly spooky effect. It is said the director repeatedly forced Hurd
Hatfield to keep his facial features virtually unchanged throughout the story.
Hatfield, a skilled actor of considerable range (whose post-Dorian Gray career
fell sadly at the mercy of maintaining the illusion of his alter ego), was
literally straight-jacketed in his performance. The effect, however, is
uncanny, foreshadowing the malignancy of the character’s wretched spiral into
self-destruction.

As for Angela
Lansbury’s Sybil Vane; she has been reshaped in Lewin’s screenplay into the
most unassuming innocent from a lower strata of life; the celebrated chanteuse
of The Two Turtles; a lowbrow nightclub in the heart of Limehouse – then
considered England’s ‘red light’ district.
Lewin, who was a highly literate man, a huge fan of Oscar Wilde, and, a
former University professor to boot, had no compunction about toying with Wilde’s
original prose. Yet in translating the story to the screen there is an almost
religious adherence to Wilde’s central themes – to keep the actual tawdriness
and debaucheries consuming Dorian Gray’s core a secret from the audience. In
the novel, Wilde commits only a few veiled lines to suggest the devilry his
Dorian Gray might be up to, while in the movie Lewin briefly shows us his
Dorian merely trolling the stark alleys and murky byways of Blue Gate Fields.
The novel caused quite a scandal for Wilde when it was first published in 1890. Despite its incendiary appeal, Wilde insisted
that the sins of Dorian Gray were only present in the reader’s lurid
imagination.

As in the
novel, Dorian Gray is a man in love with himself – or, that is to say, with the
image of his own physical attractiveness, captured for posterity within a
startling portrait painted by his good friend, Basil Hollward (Lowell Gilmore).
In the otherwise B&W movie, this portrait is revealed to the audience
thrice, each time in blazing Technicolor. The portrait takes Lord Henry
Wotten’s (George Sanders) breath away. In the novel, Wotten is something of a
bi- or perhaps homo-erotic catalyst who contributes to Dorian’s downfall. In
the movie however, Wotten’s contribution to Dorian’s fate is far more
insidious. As played to perfection by George Sanders, eyes gleaming, cheeks
proudly gloating beneath his Mephistophelian goatee, Wotten is a very cultured
bon vivant, undeniably attracted to Dorian’s glacially masculine handsomeness.
But he neither goads nor orchestrates the fate of our anti-heroic fop by
plucking his strings as an overbearing puppet master; rather, he merely
presides over Dorian’s misadventures by introducing aestheticism into the young
man’s cultured mind. The only way to divert a temptation, Wotten suggests, is
to yield to it - to give in and satisfy its urge. Having done so, the urge no
longer teases the imagination because it has been revealed and/or tested in a
very concrete way.

In a moment of
weakness, Dorian concurs with Wotten’s theory and decides to make his own
Faustian pact with the devil: that if only he could remain eternally youthful
he is willing to sacrifice Basil’s art in place of his own bodily corruption. Basil’s
portrait – the iconography of his outward beauty - will decay, revealing both
the awfulness of Dorian’s actions and the ravages of time. It is a fool’s pact, of course, one made by a
young man who cannot imagine himself robbed of the great good fortune of his
good looks. These have made him the envy of most men and a very desirable
artifact to at least two women; Sybil Vane (Angela Lansbury) and Basil’s
daughter, Gladys Hallward (played as a precocious child by Carol Diane Keppler,
then, later as an adult by doe-eyed Donna Reed).

In critiques
of the movie, George Sanders’ Henry Wotten is often misperceived as the devil
incarnate. But if anything his Henry Wotten is the devil’s advocate, and
perhaps not even that – Wotten’s renunciation of aestheticism upon the
discovery of Dorian’s badly decomposed and tortured body, lying on the floor
inside his upstairs attic playroom in the film’s penultimate moment, perfectly
mirroring Wilde’s own harsh criticisms of aestheticism as a way of life, but
also redeeming Sander’s Wotten of any wrong-doing he might have exercised. Wilde’s details about the relationship
between Wotten and Dorian remain sketchy at best, particularly since sodomy was
then a crime punishable by imprisonment and certainly not a topic readily
discussed in prominent literature of the day.

Morose at the
prospect that his own life is slipping away, Dorian takes to the streets of
Limehouse. He meets singer Sybil Vane at The Two Turtles, a seedy pub run by
Malvolio Jones (Billy Bevan). Sybil’s love life is mismanaged by Jones and her
mother (Lydia Bilbrook), each of whom exact a fee for Dorian’s romantic pursuit
of the girl. Despite her station in life, and the wily machinations of the
spurious adults who surround her, Sybil remains a girl pure of heart. She
refuses Dorian’s stipend and pursues him with unfettered affections. He, in
turn, is absolutely smitten with her, even going so far as to tell both Basil
and Wotten of his discovery and encourages them to meet Sibyl at the Two
Turtles some time later. Only Basil can see the true value of the girl. Wotten
is merely amused, suggesting a cruel experiment to Dorian to test the fidelity
of Sybil’s affections. Wotten tells Dorian that he should invite Sybil to his
home that evening under an innocent pretext, but then make violent advances to
seduce her. If she accepts these, then she is a creature no more favorable than
a guttersnipe and is to be discarded by Dorian at once.

Basil is
appalled by the spitefulness of the exercise. But Dorian elects to test
Wotten’s theory. Unapologetically, and with no emotion, he orders Sybil to stay
the night or lose his affections forever. The heartlessness of his invitation
breaks Sybil’s young heart. Moreover, it shatters her idealisms about Dorian –
a man whom she truly, painfully loves.
Her pride and sense of morality encourage her to walk out. But Dorian
callously strikes up a Chopin prelude with great vigor. This he had previously
played for Sybil with demure tenderness at The Two Turtles to illustrate his
legitimate affections for her. But now the music rings ominous as it lures
Sybil back to Dorian’s side with great and tragic reluctance; her advancing
shadow approaching from behind as Dorian continues to play on.

Sometime later
we learn that, having once taken advantage of the girl, Dorian has repeatedly
lured Sibyl to his bedchamber, each time her love growing more resilient for
him while his exponentially cools toward her until the moment of his outright
dismissal arrives by messenger. Dorian consults his portrait, detecting a
slight smirk in the face staring back at him. Is it real or imagined? Examining
his own flawless features in the hall mirror, Dorian realizes that his pact has
begun to take hold. He is ageless, the portrait reflecting his insincerities in
his stead. Having surrendered to Dorian, Sybil is destroyed by this remote
farewell. She vanishes from the movie – and presumably, from all polite society
thereafter. We learn much later from Sybil’s devoted brother, the mariner James
(Richard Fraser) that she has died, presumably by her own hand or at the very
least, prematurely from a broken heart.

News of
Sybil’s demise eventually reaches Dorian. He is perhaps wounded by this
discovery, although his first recourse is hardly to mourn her loss, but rather
to delve deeper into a self-indulgent litany of debaucheries that leads further
to his own destruction. The portrait, hidden from our view, is infrequently
consulted by Dorian – its eventual exile beneath a heavy cloak and hidden under
lock and key in the upstairs attic playroom where other relics from Dorian’s
forgotten youth now reside, suggests that its physical ravages are beyond
casual concealment. The years pass. Gladys grows into maturity and is courted
by David Stone (Peter Lawford); an amiable suitor whom she does not love.
Dorian toys with Gladys affections. But his ageless human perfection has become
a source of quiet gossip and the subject of much speculation amongst even his
closest friends.

Intent on
sparing his daughter the unpleasantness of learning the truth about Dorian
Gray, Basil has long defended his old friend’s honor when questioned about
these persistent rumors. But his curiosities and apprehensions continue to
linger. Unable to dismiss them without prejudice, Basil confronts Dorian and
insists that he be allowed to view the portrait. Dorian denies this request at
first. But Basil presses on, informing Dorian that he will do everything within
his power to spare Gladys any great unhappiness. Dorian reluctantly leads Basil
to the attic. Horrified by the ravages depicted in his artistry, Basil realizes
that the rumors about Dorian Gray are all true. So that Gladys should never
know the truth, Dorian stabs Basil to death in the attic, the portrait’s hand
beginning to bleed as a consequence of his actions.

The murder of
Basil is perhaps the most startling sequence in the movie; Harry Stradling’s
extraordinary and Oscar-winning B&W cinematography capturing Dorian’s
unrepentant façade as a ceiling gas lamp teeters wildly back and forth, revealing
in contrasting light and shadow Basil’s bloodied corpse slumped across the
desk. This sequence is capped off by another moment of understated showmanship
as Dorian uses an embroidered cloth from his youth to casually wipe his
blood-stained hands. Immediately following this chilling sequence there is
another, in which Dorian now orders another old friend, Allen Campbell (Douglas
Watson) to dispose of Basil’s remains or face having his own sins exposed by
Dorian to Campbell’s wife and family. Like the sins of Dorian Gray, Campbell’s
are never fully fleshed out for the audience. Nevertheless, they must be fairly
lurid. For Campbell, unable to bring himself to terms with his own demons,
later commits suicide to spare himself the indignation of his own duplicity in
Basil’s murder.

Dorian Gray is
often referred to – incorrectly - as a sociopath. In the truest sense of the
word, the aforementioned scenes do suggest as much. But then comes the fateful
moment when Dorian is reunited with Sybil’s brother, the pair having just come
from a brothel in Limehouse, and James determined to exact his pound of flesh
from the man he rightfully blames for his sister’s untimely death. The
confrontation, however, never entirely materializes perhaps because James can
sense a parallel between their lives. But it does open an old wound in Dorian’s
emotional psyche; one that will continue to fester for the rest of movie,
infecting Dorian’s every thought and proving just as corrosive to his own
conscience as his actions have been to the canvass that now truly illustrates
his own sad self-destructive nature.

Meanwhile,
David is determined to reveal Dorian’s true self to Gladys. His inquiries to
view the portrait locked in the attic in the presence of Wotten and Gladys are
thwarted, but finally convince Dorian that he has come to the end of his
decadences. Despite his best laid plans, he can no longer mask his true
identity from the encroaching world or from the woman he sought to possess at
all costs. Hurrying to the attic, Dorian uncovers his portrait for one last
time; strangely appalled by its epic decay; the torture encapsulated within his
soul – or at least, what is left of it – has at last taken hold. Ironically,
Dorian uses the knife he murdered Basil with to stab at the heart of this
mirrored image, the wound taking hold in his own breast. He falls to the floor
just as Wotten, Gladys and David barge in; Basil’s portrait reverting to its
former glory while the crust and filth of his own depravities has consumed the
pathetically withered body now lying at their feet.

MGM knew it
had a masterpiece on its hands. And yet, it wasn’t quite certain how to market
the movie. The Picture of Dorian Graywas sold as everything from a macabre romance to grand guignol; a horror movie
with some of the most bizarre and tepid taglines ever used to promote a major
motion picture. Nevertheless, tempted by the prospect of seeing something truly
imbued with a sense of the tragic and the supernatural, audiences flocked to
see the movie and were startled and satisfied for their fascinations. Oscar
Wilde’s novel has since been made and remade several times and by some very
competent film makers. Yet the oeuvre of Oscar Wilde’s sly prose seems to elude
all but this 1945 classic. Director, Albert Lewin has tweaked the novel just
enough and in all the right places to punctuate Wilde’s double-edged absorption/disgust
with aestheticism and the results yield to a cinematic work of genius with few
– if any - equals; rich, dark and brooding with the symmetry of tenderly flawed
romanticism.

Hurd Hatfield
was forever typecast by Hollywood afterward. Although he steadily worked and
committed to his craft some very fine performances, particularly on the stage,
his entire life was spent commiserating with this chilling alter ego, giving
autographs and interviews as the undisputed Dorian Gray. It must be said that
despite Hatfield’s objections to remaining glacially reserved throughout the
movie, here too Albert Lewin knew exactly what he was doing. Without so much as
moving a muscle, Hatfield exudes a sort of paralytic wickedness through his
mellifluous delivery of each line of dialogue. When Hatfield’s Dorian beckons
Sybil to spend the night his words drip with a sinister stroke of genius, the
unremarkable expression on his face strangely full of star-crossed innocence
and diabolical temptation; hypnotic, compelling and yet strangely off-putting
and repugnant all in the same instance. The moment of Basil’s murder is
punctuated by Harry Stradling’s brilliant camerawork. And yet it is Dorian’s
face that remains captivating; unchanging and yet imbued with a sense of the
truly sublime – inspiring both our admiration and dread as he coldly stares
down at his handy work.

Angela
Lansbury had been brought to the attention of both Lewin and director George
Cukor on the same afternoon by Michael Dyne; an actor much closer to Oscar
Wilde’s vision of Dorian Gray than Hurd Hatfield, and who was testing for the
coveted role. Lansbury, who had come to America with her mother to escape the
war, was immediately snatched up for the part of Sibyl, and also for the role
of Nancy, the saucy maid in 1944’s remake of Gaslight. In each case, Lansbury was Oscar-nominated for her
performances and in each she lost the coveted statuette to another more
established star.

Produced with
impeccable panache and style by Pandro S. Berman, The Picture of Dorian Gray has long remained a favorite among
audiences and critics. It was a commercial success on both sides of the
Atlantic. It is even rumored that America’s merchant marines excised Lansbury’s
performance of ‘Goodbye Little Yellow
Bird’ (the song she briefly sings at The Two Turtles) from a copy of the
film to play over and over again aboard their naval vessels while stationed at
sea. Viewed today, The Picture of Dorian Grayhas lost none of its luster to thrill
and shock. The film’s clever pacing, its meticulous attention to claustrophobic
bric-a-brac in all its set dressings: the stellar performances by all the cast
– these go beyond mere quality, transcending the boundaries of time and
space. As a movie, this Dorian
Gray has indeed attained immortality of a very different kind. It is
ageless.

Were that the
same could be said of the transfer. Warner Home Video’s Blu-ray marginally
bests its previous DVD. Alas, the B&W image occasionally lacks crispness,
and intermittently suffers from the same edge enhancement as its standard
predecessor. Improvements are, in fact, inevitable and abound. The brief
Technicolor inserts of the portrait, as example, are far more stunningly
realized on the Blu-ray. The DVD’s hinted at a slightly greenish/bluish tint
with minor age-related artifacts present. The Blu-ray looks more natural here;
flesh tone especially, looking appropriately pink rather than ruddy orange. The
minor inconsistencies with film grain that also dogged the DVD have been
eradicated herein. Once again, my major
quibbling is the overall softness in the image, particularly the last reel that
continues to look blurry rather than photographed through gauze for effect. I
also think Warner ought to have cleaned up and stabilized the two or three
shots plagued by edge enhancement.

Overall, this
is a very solid rendering; and no claim to the contrary is made herein. But it
isn’t quite as perfect as other titles in the Warner Archive, and that’s a
genuine pity. The audio is mono as
originally recorded and has been very nicely cleaned up. Extras are limited to
an audio commentary from Steve Haberman with Angela Lansbury; the latter, a tad
sketchy on certain details about the making of the film. We also get two short
subjects and a trailer; all of it ported over from the DVD. Bottom line: The Picture of Dorian Gray is required
viewing. Warner’s Blu-ray isn’t pristine, but it is more than passable. Highly
recommended!

Friday, November 14, 2014

Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night(1934) has been
called many things. Upon shooting her final scene, Claudette Colbert picked up
the telephone to an old friend, mercilessly declaring in front of Capra, “I’ve just made the worst picture of my
life!” Neither Colbert, nor co-star Clark Gable thought much of the
project, each making it under duress. Colbert had, in fact, been strong-armed
by Columbia Studio chief, Harry Cohn, who famously told histemperamental diva
she would make It Happened One Night…or
else. The ‘or else’ was left open to
interpretation. But during the golden era in Hollywood, when stars were
indentured to lengthy studio contracts without fail – or question, for that
matter – it could have easily meant anything from lousy parts to a forced absence
from the screen; allowing for the fatal cooling off of the public’s fascination
with one’s career. Colbert was no fool. Neither was Cohn. But her first picture with Capra (1927’s For the Love of Mike) had been such a
disaster Colbert feared she was in for more of the same this time around.
Hence, she came to It Happened One Night
with an innate and festering prejudice that only seemed to exponentially grow.
A tenuous détente was struck between Colbert and Cohn – anything to get Colbert
off on her promised vacation to Sun Valley. But Colbert made Capra’s life a
living hell for the duration of the shoot; insisting on close-ups shot from
only her best side. Frequently they bickered about the way a scene should be
played – Capra usually getting his way, though not without a struggle.

On the whole,
Clark Gable proved more congenial, though even he had his moments. Gable wasn’t
particularly keen on Colbert as his costar. He was used to the glamor gals at
Metro. The feeling, it seems, was mutual; Colbert protesting the mild stench
from Gable’s dentures during their kissing scenes. He treated her with fairly
casual contempt. She dismissed his movie-land/he-man image outright. Over the
years rumors have varied as to how Gable came to do It Happened One Night. One goes, Gable had refused a picture at his
alma mater – MGM – inciting studio raja, Louis B. Mayer to a show of force. On
a good day, Mayer would have not thought twice about the loan out of his numero
uno box office stud. After all, Gable was king.
But Gable had caught L.B. on an off day – ripe for the disciplining and
forcibly ‘rented’ to Columbia Pictures; then considered little better than a
poverty row studio. To come from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer; the Cartier in the
industry – to Columbia (unquestionably, the equivalent of the five and dime)
was a smack down for Gable. He took his lumps, but made the best of a bad
situation.

There is
another rumor to satisfy; namely, that Mayer was paying Gable a respectable
salary of $2,000.00 a week – then, a princely sum – whether he worked at MGM or
not. To maximize his profits, Mayer loaned Gable to Cohn for $25,000.00 per
week, thereby making back $500 on his investment. Whatever the case, when It Happened One Nightbecame the first
motion picture to score Oscars for Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress and
Screenplay, both stars were left wondering what all the backstage feuding had
been about. Colbert at least had the decency to offer something of a public
apology to Capra, during her acceptance speech leaning into the podium, and
with gold statuette proudly raised, declaring “I owe all of it to Frank Capra!”
Capra’s reputation at Columbia, already steadily on the ascendance prior
to It Happened One Night,
experienced a colossal boost immediately thereafter. Indeed, for the rest of
the decade, Capra could do no wrong in Cohn’s eyes. He was afforded carte
blanche on his pick of projects, the subsequent movies growing more lavish;
culminating with a string of sublime super hits and one unfortunate miss: Lost Horizon (1937); today, rightfully
viewed as a masterpiece, but so costly it served as a millstone, dragging
Columbia’s bottom line back into the red.

It Happened One Nightfalls into
the category of the ‘road picture’ –
eloquently scripted by Capra’s long-time collaborator, Robert Riskin and based
on Samuel Hopkins Adams minor success, ‘Night
Bus’. The formal, in hindsight, seems deceptively simple. Take one pampered
runaway heiress, a ‘brass tax’ news hound - out for the scoop of his career, a
misguided dalliance in the middle of nowhere, and, the added screwball of both
individuals starting out as virulent enemies (but winding up passionate lovers)
and voila – you have, It Happened One
Night. The film’s enduring success is predicated on a series of engaging
mishaps, some occurring behind the scenes. Capra shot the picture in sequence
in only 28 days, feverishly shooting, and playing ringmaster to his two tempestuous
stars, improvising scenes along the way, and encouraging cinematographer,
Joseph Walker not to invest too much time in creating the usual cinema glamor.
All of this last minute brouhaha gave It
Happened One Night buoyancy and a verisimilitude uncharacteristic of the
usual Hollywood product.

The bedroom
détente scene, played midway through the story (where Colbert’s stuffy Ellie
Andrews reluctantly acquiesces to Gable’s Peter Warne’s refusal to sleep
elsewhere; the two stringing a rope across the room with an oversized comforter
slung over it to provide an imaginary wall), became iconically romantic; not
the least for its suggestive exchange of dialogue. Ellie – who is heart sore
and desperately longing for a real man’s touch and Gable’s forthright
resistance of Ellie’s charms because, in fact, he has sincerely begun to fall
for her, created the sort of elusive cinema magic and romantic electricity it
required. The preceding scene, where the couple separately undresses for bed,
was cause for minor controversy, however, when Gable revealed a bare torso
beneath his outer shirt. Overnight, sales of men’s undershirts plummeted across
the United States! Such was Gable’s star drawing power back then.

Because its
pieces fit so succinctly together, It
Happened One Night looks deceptively simple. Yet, others have long since
tried to recapture – or at least, emulate – the ‘formula’ of this road picture and miserably, have failed. It is
fairly safe to assume the casting of Gable and Colbert helped boost interest in
the movie itself. But Frank Capra was cribbing from an exceptional screenplay
too; Robert Riskin’s prose keeping the action lithe and spirited; his dialogue
remaining true to the strengths of his stars. There is, in fact, an opportunity
for both Gable and Colbert to do what they did best in It Happened One Night; their off screen mutual antagonism boding
well for the troubled flirtations ripening throughout the story. Gable’s
introduction to Colbert’s spoiled heiress on the night bus is impeccably
crafted. Peter Warne informs Ellie Andrews with double entendre, “That upon which you sit is mine.” When
she refuses to give up her seat, Gable inquires whether “these seats sit two”. Ward Bond’s caustic bus driver belligerently
declares, “Well maybe they don’t and
maybe they do!” Peter merely squeezes his way into the seat occupied by
Ellie, muttering, “Move over. This is a
‘maybe they do’.”

Nevertheless, Gable’s
cock of the walk is repeatedly tested in It
Happened One Night. He isn’t this
lady’s choice…not by a long shot. Nor, is Ellie without her talents to upstage
her he-man. She proves the drawing power of her own sexuality after the two
become stranded on the side of the road. Gable’s complex theory of the perfect
technique to thumb a free ride falls flat in practice as he proves unable to
procure a means of transportation; a series of speeding automobiles passing him
by. Observing his chagrined debacle from the sidelines, Colbert’s Ellie
declares, “I’ll get us a ride and I won’t
use my thumb!” whereupon she merely raises the hem of her skirt, revealing
a shapely nylon-stocking limb, and immediately secures a ride from the next available
passerby. Gables response registers bewilderment, sheepish dismay, and finally,
a genuine admiration for this gal with hidden talents. It’s a delicious moment
of proto-feminism; Ellie having grown a woman’s heart in place of the vapid,
angry void that caused her to flee her father, millionaire Alexander Andrews
(Walter Connelly) yacht in the first place after he gave her a well-deserved
slap on the cheek for being insulant.

It Happened One Night toys with the
idea of ‘a woman’s place’ in society:
Ellie – the haughty and exclusive princess of the manor born refuses to abide
by her father’s wishes; that she not marry stuffed shirt and middle-aged bore,
King Wesley (Jameson Thomas). He’s a penniless fortune hunter. But Ellie
professes to love him. Actually, she’s rebelling against what she perceives as
patriarchal intrusion on her private life. She wants to be her own woman; alas,
without first actually fully grasping the concept. Nor is Ellie prepared for
the various cads preying upon her relative innocence and inexperience in the
outside world. What Ellie really needs is not a he-man protector, per say, but
a guy’s guy to show her the ropes for getting along in a dishonest world. After
all, she’s a fairly quick study. She sees through the insidious boar/travelling
salesman, Oscar Shapeley (Roscoe Karns) and, too late, clues in to the modus
operandi of the seemingly congenial driver, Danker (Alan Hale), who offers
Ellie and Peter a lift, but actually manages to lift their luggage and drive
off without them. Although she plays helpless, Ellie is really responsible for
making up her own mind about things in general and Peter in particular; coming
to her senses in the eleventh hour – while strolling down to the makeshift
outdoor altar in her wedding dress, no less – before making a sprinted B-line
for the nearest exit to be reunited with Peter. It’s unlikely theirs will be a
true 50/50 relationship; but at least Peter is able to acknowledge the diamond
his own heart has managed to pluck from the rough. Ellie may be a gem. But Pete
is going to have his hands full!

It Happened One Nightbegins with
Ellie’s daring escape from her father’s yacht. He attempts to lock her in a
cabin below decks when she professes her undying love and desire to marry King
Wesley. Father and daughter have words, her razor-sharp and biting diatribe
forcing dear ole dad into a bit of paternal discipline. He wallops her across
the cheek. It’s such a startle – for Ellie too – that she immediately pushes
her way past Alexander and several of the boat’s crew, diving off the top deck
and swimming ashore before Alexander can turn his boat around. In the meantime,
a very inebriated Peter Warne is sitting inside a terminal waiting for the
night bus; prodded by some fair-weather lushes to telephone his managing
editor, Joe Gordon (Charles C. Wilson) and offer up a piece of his gin-soaked
mind. The insults fly hard and heavy, Gordon hanging up the phone before Peter
is finished. To save face, Peter goes on for a few moments more as his cronies
listen in; afterwards declaring, “That’s
tellin’ him!”

Before long
Peter and Ellie have their cute meet on the bus. Ellie falls asleep on Peter’s
shoulder, awakening a short while later, still full of her own independence. Peter,
however, has recognized Ellie from the local newspaper headline about a runaway
heiress, and quietly telephones Gordon to offer him the scoop of the century;
an exclusive on what’s become of Ellie Andrews. The night bus makes several stops,
one at a roadside outdoor diner where Ellie’s bag is pinched by a thief (Ernie
Adams) without her even knowing it. Peter makes chase but is unsuccessful.
Penniless and, for the first time, scared to boot, Ellie accepts Peter’s
philanthropy. She is not terribly good at managing his money, however;
squandering what he gives her on superficialities rather than necessities. When
Pete finds out he’s furious.

From here on
in,It Happened One Night steadily
evolves into a series of fairly plausible and thoroughly charming
misadventures. The couple spends a night in a rented cabin, dividing the room
with a clothes line they label ‘the walls of Jericho’. Soon, initial
inhibitions and mutual disdain take a backseat to true confessions about the
great unhappiness in each of their lives. Whether either chooses to acknowledge
it or not, this moment will serve as the foundation to their romantic
relationship. Lumping it on foot, Ellie and Peter spend their second evening
together, snoozing near some hay stacks. In the morning, Ellie is paralyzed
with fear at having been abandoned by Peter. Instead, he arrives with some
hand-picked fruit and veggies for breakfast. Exhausted, Ellie demands Peter
procure them a ride. His hitchhiker’s technique could use some work. So Ellie
raises her skirt and lands them both their first big break. It turns out to be
anything but as the driver, Danker, pretends to be their friend, but then
drives off with their suitcases in tow. A
short while later Peter exacts his revenge on Danker, stealing his car.

On the last length
of their journey, Ellie confesses her love for Peter. He is determined to marry
her. But after depositing Ellie inside a cabin and hurrying off to inform
Gordon he intends not to write the story about their escapades, Peter returns
to the cabin to discover Ellie gone; having been found out by Alexander, rescued
back to his estate where the wedding to King Wesley is to take place. Peter
arrives at the Andrews’ estate on the afternoon of the wedding; Alexander
offering him money in gratitude for Ellie’s safe return. He turns it down. But
Ellie is insulted even at the insinuation Peter might have only been interested
in her because of her wealth and family name. Peter storms off in a frustrated,
masculine huff, leaving Alexander to escort his teary-eyed daughter down the aisle. Alexander quietly whispers his approval of
Peter’s motives and also of the man himself. He informs Ellie that Peter turned
down flat his generous offer. It must be love. Armed with this understanding,
Ellie breaks free of her father’s arm and scurries past the astonished guests
with King Wesley in hot pursuit.

Unable to
apprehend his bride, Wesley inquires what could possibly have made her change
her mind about their marriage. Alexander plays dumb, but secretly is satisfied
his daughter has made the right choice.
Capra cuts to the same cabin the couple shared earlier, the bemused
proprietor of the Auto Camp (Harry Holman) informing his wife (Maidel Turner)
Peter has requested a toy trumpet, some string and a heavy comforter; symbolic
of the ‘walls of Jericho’ that barred the couple from consummating their
relationship eariler. The trumpet sounds and the lights in the cabin go out.
It’s every man – and every woman, for that matter – for themselves; the
honeymoon begun; the show - fini.

It has often
been noted that some of the greatest movies ever made were the product of blind
chaos and great luck. This was, perhaps, never more astutely observed than in It Happened One Night; deceptively
lighter than air. Yet, the paper thin plot and preposterous scenarios come off
without a hitch. More than that – the love affair blossoming between Ellie and
Peter is wholly believable. Ironically, It
Happened One Night was the movie nobody – except Capra – wanted to make. Afterward, it became the movie
everyone, including Capra, was trying to beat. Capra’s association at Columbia
would prove immensely fruitful. Arguably, he did his best work here during the
1930’s, culminating with 1938’s Oscar-winning You Can’t Take It With You, and his superbly crafted social
commentary on American politics; Mr.
Smith Goes To Washington (1939); a clever indictment of graft in
Washington’s back-slapping machinery, as seen through the eyes of its ultimate 'every man' and daydreamer, James Stewart. It
Happened One Nighthas the more cynical Gable to recommend it in Stewart’s
stead and Gable proves (as though any proof were needed) why he earned the
moniker of Hollywood’s ‘king’. There’s an intangible animal magnetism to Gable
that cannot be manufactured. He simply was
a real man.

It Happened One Night is a movie
that could only have been possible in the 1930’s; a decade brimming with
wide-eyed optimism about most things; Hollywood thumbing its collective noses
at the Great Depression and providing audiences with topflight, class ‘A’
entertainment. While many of the other studios, chiefly MGM, invested heavily
in the escapist and otherworldly glamor of fanciful and well-appointed living,
Columbia’s budget would not permit Capra such a luxury. It’s just as well.
Capra’s yen for telling relatively real stories about the flaws in male/female
relationships, struck a more genuine chord on a more restrained outlay of
capital. And the profits Columbia and Harry Cohn were to derive from Capra’s
‘corn in totem throughout the 1930’s proved the studio’s salvation; a means by
which Cohn built Columbia’s reputation in the industry for quality product, hiring
A-list directors and free-agented talent on a picture by picture basis.

In retrospect,It Happened One Night is Capra’s earliest
masterpiece in this tenure; blessed with his inimitable light touch and
penchant for achieving a level of on-screen intimacy fairly hard to top. The
relationship between Ellie and Peter just seems genuine; the morphing of their
acrimonious relationship into one of mutual respect and finally, love, taking
on a life of its own. Gable and Colbert may have thought they were committing
career suicide with It Happened One
Night, but time has proven the opposite to be true. While Gable will likely
always be associated with Rhett Butler in Gone
with the Wind (1939), Colbert’s regrettably dwindling repute has been
buoyed over the generations almost exclusively by her appearance in this, Frank
Capra’s classiest romance. Arguably,
Colbert ought to be remembered for much more; her performance in David O. Selznick’s
superbly crafted wartime weepy, Since
You Went Away (1944) arguably, her greatest. Gable’s repertoire too is a
myriad of treasures yet to be unearthed in hi-def, or even competently given
their due on standard DVD. In the final analysis, It Happened One Night represents the best from both actors, despite
their misgivings. Arguably, each star would go on to do ‘better’ work elsewhere. But together in It Happened One Night, they’re dynamic, engaging and deliriously in
sync with one another, achieving a level of quietly restless passion few stars
of any vintage have been able to express with such professionalism, confidence
and graceful charm.

Well, it’s
about time! Criterion Home Video rectifies many a sin committed on this vintage
catalog title over the years. First off, it should be noted that, like a good
many Columbia titles from the 1930’s, no original nitrate elements survive.
Over the decades, Columbia attempted to do right by what remained; their first
attempt on DVD more marginally competent, followed by a disastrous reissue as
part of a Frank Capra Collection in
which contrast was so severely toggled down it yielded an oppressively dark and
poorly contrasted image. Well, prepare to be exceptionally pleased with what’s
on this Blu-ray. Not only has contrast been rectified to reveal new and
revitalized minute details, but we also get the film’s indigenous grain looking
gorgeously thick and natural. Truly, It
Happened One Night has never looked this good on home video. The visuals
have a subtly nuanced, filmic appearance; fine detail popping as it should;
showcasing Joseph Walker’s soft lit, and softly focused cinematography to its
best advantage. Better still, age-related dirt and scratches have been
eradicated, thanks to a thorough clean-up. We can likely thank Sony Pictures VP
Grover Crisp for that. There are still issues of modeling and streaking;
unavoidable, given this is an 80 year old film that has suffered greatly over
the decades since from improper preservation and storage. But honestly, It Happened One Night in hi-def will be
a distinct revelation for most. Get ready for a quality effort put forth with
very pleasing results!

Predictably,
Criterion has gone the route of another PCM mono audio track, plagued by
inherent weaknesses, lovingly preserved for posterity herein. Criterion pads
out the extras, including: Screwball
Comedy?; a 40 minute conversation between film scholars/critics, Molly
Haskell and Phillip Lopate. Much too short, though appreciated, is the11-minute
interview with Frank Capra Jr., first recorded for the old Columbia Classics
DVD release in 1999. We also get Capra’s very first movie, 1921’s Fultah Fisher’s Boarding House, with a
new score composed and performed by Donald Sosin. The most comprehensive extras
are Frank Capra’s American Dream;
Ken Bower’s hour and a half long documentary, hosted by Ron Howard, from 1997,
and the complete AFI tribute to Capra.
The former features interviews with a litany of Capra collaborators as well as
actors and directors from Capra’s vintage. The latter is a star-studded
evening, hosted by James Stewart. A few portions of the original broadcast are
MIA herein. Aside: I think it astonishing the AFI has never bothered to reissue
any of their Lifetime Achievement broadcasts to home video in any sort of
meaningful or comprehensive way. Last,
but not least, we get an original theatrical trailer and liner notes from
critic, Farran Smith Nehme. Bottom line: It
Happened One Night is an American classic. Criterion’s Blu-ray gives the
film its due. Enjoy and buy with confidence. One of the best classic releases
of 2014!

About Me

Nick Zegarac is a freelance writer/editor and graphics artist. He holds a Masters in Communications and an Honors B.A in Creative Lit from the University of Windsor.
He is currently a freelance writer and has been a contributing editor for Black Moss Press and is a featured contributor to online's The Subtle Tea. He's also has had two screenplays under consideration in Hollywood.
Last year he finished his first novel and is currently searching for an agent to represent him.
Contact Nick via email at movieman@sympatico.ca